Volunteer Hours
by AbsoluteObscurity
Summary: Sherlock is in a deep coma. John's counsellor suggests that he takes up volunteering and he visits regularly. He speaks to him, knowing it's only for his benefit, but has no idea that Sherlock can hear him- and that it's keeping him sane. Meme fill. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**PROMPT:** _Sherlock's in a deep coma, considered completely vegetative. One person, however, keeps visiting him and talking to him-knowing he probably can't hear anything, knowing it's just for their own benefit and not his. They do this for months, maybe years._

_Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock starts to recover. As he regains the ability to communicate, he asks after his visitor-because he could hear, see, he was excruciatingly aware of everything around him all the time and couldn't do anything about it, and if not for those regular visits giving him something to deduce and concentrate on he would've gone completely insane._

_Can be shippy or not; the visitor can be any character, the more unexpected the better._

**TL;DR:** _Somebody visits Sherlock while he's in a coma. He can hear everything they say._

**Alternate Universe.**

**John-centric.**

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><p><span>Volunteer Hours<span>

It was a weekly question, but something about it made him dig his fingers into the cheap leather arm-rests every single time it reached his ears.

"How's your blog going?"

It was like being asked for his homework, and god, she _knew_ the answer. Anybody with ten seconds on their hands and an internet connection would know that he hadn't touched the damn thing, but his reply was the same as it ever was.

"Good," he cleared his throat, "very good."

She let a beat pass, then wrote something on her clipboard. This time, it was 'still has trust issues'. Last week, it had been 'desire for change'. He hadn't bothered to argue that most human beings his age wanted change. He hadn't been able to find the energy. He still couldn't- not really. "You haven't written a word, have you?"

There it was, like clockwork. He opened his mouth to speak, to force an issue out of what she had written down in an effort to change the subject, but she shook her head and tilted the clipboard up and away from his prying eyes.

"I know that you're tired of the suggestion by now," she said, "but if you really don't want to blog, I can honestly try to help you find something else to do. Like…"

Her voice trailed off and she leaned forward. John could see 'still has trust issues' again, but she came up with an idea before he could mention it.

"Volunteering."

John's comment died on his lips.

"Where?"

"Where-ever you like. There's an animal shelter nearby, a few nursing homes and I'm sure that the hospital could use a few visitors…"

She paused and a small, hopeful smile reached her eyes.

"They might even be looking for staff soon, Doctor."

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><p>As a rule, John did not like to take the advice of other doctors. He had not toiled away at medical school for years to be too incompetent to take care of himself. He went to the therapist because it was covered by the NHS. It was something to do. It kept Harry from asking him to 'be honest' every week on the phone. It gave him the much-needed impression of actually trying to stop the constant nightmares and the impulse to duck and cover whenever a car exhaust backfired. He needed that semblance of an illusion more than he needed the actual appointments and he knew it. She probably knew it too.<p>

But there he stood, heavily leaning on his cane, ignoring the slow, dull throb of pain in his leg as he looked up at the hospital.

He didn't need padding for his C. V. and he certainly couldn't handle a job in a hospital if it required a lot of moving around. In fact, there was a library ten streets away…

Blogging suddenly seemed a little more appealing.

He slowly headed inside.

"To be honest," Dr. Stein told him, laying a hand on his shoulder as they walked, "we have plenty of volunteers for the children's ward – we always have and we always will – but we could really use somebody to talk to some of our patients in the neurology ward."

John let her steer him through a set of plainly marked glass doors, away from the brightly coloured displays that surely led to rooms and rooms full of small children with depressing back stories. They probably weren't in want of a bland army veteran with post traumatic stress disorder. His puppet shows would be mediocre at best.

Oh, was she still talking?

"We have a few patients that don't have many constant visitors, and they could really use some company. Just ten to fifteen minutes with them would be a massive help, since we aren't sure how conscious they are when they're under. You understand, of course."

John nodded and she stopped in front of one of the rooms, hesitating with one hand lingering on the door.

"We can put you on the children's ward if you like. Some volunteers don't like the idea of speaking to somebody that can't reply or react-"

"I don't mind," he said, cutting her off before she made any more excuses for him. "In fact, I think I might prefer it."

The smile that she gave him was refreshingly genuine.

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><p>There were three patients that he was asked to visit. An elderly man by the name of James Howell that had suffered an aneurysm, an old woman named Margaret Monroe that had had a stroke and a younger man called Sherlock Holmes. He had been a detective, Dr. Stein had told him, before he suffered trauma from a head injury. A criminal had managed to beat him down with a lead pipe.<p>

John spent ten minutes with Mr. Howell and fifteen with Ms. Monroe.

He spoke a little about the news and the weather at first, but it had lapsed into an awkward silence rather quickly. At least, it had, before he realised that there was little to feel awkward about. Still, the fact remained: he didn't have much to say.

Mr. Holmes was the last one on his list, and he was already tired and a little abashed. For all intents and purposes, he was talking to himself. He was discussing things with people that would probably never respond or, if they were in there after all, they probably didn't care about what was happening in the current political atmosphere. Nobody would know the difference if he left at that very moment.

But John did not do things in halves. He walked down the hall and, with only a little hesitation, he slipped into the final room.

At least it didn't smell like old people. Mr. Holmes was on a drip, with a feeding tube, but the window had been opened and a vase of flowers sat on the sill, drooping slightly in the cold. A small card, signed with a simple 'M', protruded between an orange carnation, a zinnia and a dahlia. The air was surely cold and crisp enough, and the hair on Mr. Holmes' arms was nearly standing up, so he took it upon himself to shut the little window.

"Sorry," he found himself murmuring as he fussed with his cane and sat down, "it's a cold day. The weather is miserable, but one would expect that from Autumn." He pulled at his leg and adjusted his position, wincing awkwardly as he tried to settle back and relax for a moment. He wouldn't need to be there long- nobody would notice if he left quickly…

His eyes finally fell on Mr. Holmes properly, and he cut the thought short.

He was just about his age, perhaps younger, and he looked as if he was simply sleeping. His eyes were shut, his breath was slow, his chest rose and fell.

It occurred to John, perhaps belatedly, how unusual it was for a civilian to fall into such a vegetative state. He had seen it happen in Afghanistan, of course, but this was London. This was a normal hospital, and Mr. Holmes did not have that awful, sunken look that many other comatose people tended to take on. He had not flattened out against the bed, as if he would eventually become part of the mattress. His cheeks were pale and thin, but they weren't ashen. He probably didn't have any bedsores yet.

On top of it all, even though his curly black hair had grown long, even though it dangled limply against his eyes and the bridge of his nose, there was still something appealing about him. Something intelligent, dulled by sleep and inactivity. Something interesting.

"Detective work was probably fascinating," he said. "I don't have any experience, but I did think of it a few times when I was a child. I liked Dupin and sometimes, Poirot. I couldn't stand Father Brown, though."

He was entirely sure that Mr. Holmes, if he was conscious, would not care. He was even partially convinced that something like this would happen in limbo, if it even existed. He could scarcely imagine being trapped in a body, unable to respond, with only the world's dullest man to listen to.

"I consider myself observant," he said, trying to push away the self-consciousness, "but I've only really had experience with medicine. Patients lied a lot to me, even when I was working in Afghanistan. I hadn't expected it quite as much amongst soldiers, but I could generally tell anyway. I was good at diagnostics. People lie, but their bodies don't."

He paused.

"I suppose that's detective work in itself, but perhaps more mundane. Like investigating a shoplifting charge when grand larceny is taking place across the street. When I was back on the front, if it wasn't a bullet wound or shrapnel, it was almost always an S.T.I. in some form or another."

Mr. Holmes couldn't see his smile, but he certainly hoped that he could hear it.

* * *

><p>{Also: <strong>Dahlia<strong>: Dignity; Elegance; Good taste; Instability / **Carnations (Orange)**: Fascination; Womanly love; Devoted love / **Zinnia**: Thinking / In memory of an absent friend.}


	2. Chapter 2

{Oh wow, I definitely didn't expect to get so many reviews and favourite stories immediately! Haha, thank you guys. ;D Always a lovely surprise!}

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><p>John Watson became somewhat of a regular fixture in the neurology ward over the next week. There was something nostalgic about wandering, however slowly, through sanitised halls with buffed floors- and it gave him something to do and think about in his spare time.<p>

He had needed it.

Dr. Stein always seemed pleasantly surprised to see him returning, but he supposed he couldn't blame her. Back at his old surgery, he would have been slightly pessimistic about volunteers too, especially if they had been asked to spend time with the comatose patients- but something kept drawing him back.

And he was fairly sure that it wasn't Ms. Monroe or Mr. Howell.

"I heard about a robbery on the news this morning- one of the older banks in Central London. The vault was locked from the inside when they got to it- two guards dead, nothing on the cameras. The inspector looked as if he'd been smacked in the jaw when he had to announce to the Daily Mail that there weren't any leads."

John spent the most time with Mr. Holmes. He kept telling himself that Holmes' room smelled the least, that he probably would have more in common with a detective than a former home-maker or a builder (he was fully aware that he was flattering himself), that he probably needed more mental stimulation, but he knew, in his heart of hearts, the real reason behind it all.

"I believe they stole the equivalent of four million pounds in jewellery and valuables, all right from under their noses in the space of eight minutes."

If he hadn't woken up after his final, active day of service, he would have wanted somebody to sit next to him.

"Ah, here it is: 'The security was present and the cameras were functioning, but it almost seems as if the bank was struck by a phantom, rather than a man.'" John rustled the newspaper in his lap and turned the page. "I'm sorry that I didn't have enough for the Guardian today, money is..."

He went silent for a moment before giving a short, soft laugh.

"I picked up the Metro. You probably guessed that."

The Metro was the free daily paper that was given out on the underground to commuters. It had been hell to limp down the stairs and then back up without even taking the train anywhere, but he liked reading the news to them. He had decided that Ms. Monroe would like the eccentric articles, that Mr. Howell would prefer hearing about architecture and most sports and Mr. Holmes... Well, what Mr. Holmes would be interested in was obvious. Break-ins, murders, strange crimes... The only time he had stopped in the middle of an article was when the violence closely related Mr. Holmes' own case- some other poor fool had been brutalised with a pipe and then left to die on the streets. It was poorly written, he had told him.

John didn't talk much about himself after his first day of volunteering. If they could hear him, they wouldn't care. If they couldn't, he was simply repeating information that he already knew to the breathing equivalent of a cadaver- and he had managed to get that out of his system after his internship.

It wasn't important, really, but he still turned up on most days at about three pm with his cane, a thermos of tea and, as time dragged on and funds continued to deplete, copies of the Metro under one arm. He still went to see Ella every Thursday morning at eleven, but it felt impossible to find any purpose elsewhere. He volunteered, he lived off of his army pension, he scrounged around for copies of the newspaper when he couldn't afford them, which was more often than not, and he did a lot of staring at the blank layout of his blog.

Three and a half weeks in, he headed to Mr. Howell's room to find it empty. Dr. Stein was there with an extra cup of tea that he didn't necessarily need, but she still took the time to sit with him and discuss the details. He'd faded quickly. It hadn't been painful. He had been eighty-seven and his daughter, who was living overseas with her children and husband, wanted to pass on her thanks to John for his faithful attendance in James' final weeks. He would receive an invitation to the funeral, if he wanted to go.

He recognised most of what Dr. Stein told him from his own time as an active doctor, but he declined to comment in depth. He had been on her side of the fence at least a hundred times and even now, even without a strong reaction on his part, he knew that there was little to gain in being the bearer of unfortunate news. He did not envy her in the slightest.

She left him in his usual chair with a lukewarm cup of tea from the doctor's lounge and he sat there for a while, letting it go cold in his hands.

He had never had a conversation with Mr. Howell. He had not known his age. He had not known his story. He hadn't even known that he still had a family. In five minutes, he had drained a half inch from his cold mug.

The paper sat there on the bedside table where it belonged, but the sheets were pressed and folded. The window was open, presumably to carry the soft scent of death away with the draft. John knew it well enough from his experience in hospitals. Partly the smell of a feeding tube, partly the scent of a decayed apple. Sickly sweet. Enough to make one's stomach twist softly.

After ten minutes, he realised that he was not feeling the loss of the man himself.

He was feeling the loss of part of his routine.

John sat there alone for his usual twenty minutes, but the Metro, crinkled and with the muddy imprint of a boot across the front page, remained untouched.

He spent twenty minutes with Ms. Monroe and thirty five with Sherlock.

Then he headed home again.


	3. Chapter 3

He wasn't sure where they had found his temporary address at the bed-sit, but the announcement of Mr. James Howell's upcoming funeral was passed through his mail slot within the next few days. John didn't see his attendance as necessary and, instead, he carried on as normal. He had already decided to continue his visits to the neurology ward with or without an extra person to read inane articles to, but he still allowed Dr. Stein to take him aside for tea when she had time. The swelling frustration in the back of his throat never really left him for long, but he obliged as well as he could and kept it all under wraps.

If she wanted to believe, along with the rest of the general populace, that he was so damn _fragile_, then he didn't care to refute her assumptions. He didn't have the energy to explain that her hospital's mortality rate was laughable in comparison to what he had experienced in Afghanistan. He didn't want to allow himself to have an outburst about how losing a man with health complications at eighty-seven was significantly less upsetting than watching an able bodied twenty-three year old bleed out on foreign soil.

Still, for the first time that month, he found himself getting distracted.

Harry had offered to take him out to dinner that evening. That meant, from his experience, that she had probably found somebody new that she wanted to introduce him to. John certainly would never want to deprive her of a bragging opportunity, after all. She needed somebody that could put a spring in her step and simultaneously kick-start her into functioning like a normal human being, but, if he knew anything about her, he was sure that the relationship was already messy and complicated and dramatic. She liked it when her women made her back-flip through hoops to please them. She wanted to earn their affections through her own merit.

John suspected that it ran in the family.

"Here's something on that robbery again… It looks like they managed to find most of the stolen goods in Kew Gardens, for some reason. They recovered roughly 3.5 million of their loss, and everything seems to be in good shape. I wonder why they would only keep 500 grand for themselves, after going through the trouble of killing two-"

John's pocket buzzed and, despite the fact that Sherlock was certainly not in any condition to consider him impolite for taking a call, he found himself apologising before picking up.

"Hello? Oh, Harry. Yeah, wait, slow down-… Of course. Erm. I suppose that I could, if you need to… Are you sure everything is fine? You don't sound like-… Well, alright. If you're sure I can't help with... Yeah. I'll see you around. Bye."

She ended the call and John folded the newspaper in his lap, leaning down to rest his head in his hands. His elbows dug into Sherlock's hospital bed, leaving new creases in the sheets by his waist. For a moment, he simply watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall as he often did, but it didn't do much to make him feel better.

"Dinner was cancelled," he finally said. "It's fine, of course- Harry has a new girlfriend, so I can't exactly expect… So I shouldn't expect… It doesn't really matter. I'll likely be in the same place, doing the same things, when they aren't busy."

He laughed for a moment, but it felt hollow and stupid.

"It sounded like something was up anyway, if they couldn't make it. Harry has never really been the type to just… blow me off."

That was a lie- Harry always cancelled at the last minute- but nobody needed to know that. It felt like sacrilege to speak poorly of her, even if Sherlock couldn't hear him. So what if dining alone would be squeezing his budget? So what if he had been eating nothing but super noodles and couscous for the last three weeks? Plenty of people did that. Even more were stood up for thinly veiled reasons. It was ridiculous of him to feel let down.

'Harry is an adult,' he reminded himself silently. 'She can do whatever she wants, and it's none of my concern.'

John's phone buzzed from where he had set it down on Sherlock's bed and he exhaled slowly before picking it up.

"'**Might need your help after all'**," he read under his breath, "**'can't find Alice, family won't talk to me and something's up. Meet at 4, the Black Bull'**… God. Here we go again."

John checked his watch before glancing out the window at the sky. It had been opened again, and a light film of condensation had formed on the underside of the glass. Probably not too cold, but sometimes his leg ached at the slightest hint of terrible weather.

Somebody had changed the flowers out again. He hadn't even noticed that.

"I guess I'd better leave, then. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay as long as I normally do."

He pulled himself up from his chair and pocketed his phone, ignoring the slight throb of pain under his knee.

"Oh, who am I kidding? You wouldn't have noticed the difference. It's as if I'm not even here."

And, in less than two minutes, every trace of John was gone from the room.

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><p>This is a bit of a short chapter, but necessary! There's a lot more for the next one, promise. Thanks for the lovely reviews, guys!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

_Firstly, thank you guys so much for the lovely comments! I really, really appreciate the support and encouragement. :D_

_This chapter was ridiculously fun to write. I did a lot of research about the surrounding area (googlemaps is nothing short of a godsend) and, even though I'd picked the Black Bull simply because it was a pub in the town that I live in (in Wales), I found one that was literally a 2 minute walk away from the Royal London Hospital. It has recently been renamed 'Nakoda', but, eh, whatever. You can look it up on googlemaps, if you're as dweeby as I am._

* * *

><p>Mercifully, the Black Bull was only about a five minute walk from the front doors of the hospital. He had almost expected for Harry to call him out to the furthest corner of London, to be forced into some obscure, miserable pub in High Barnet, to be trapped on the Underground for at least an hour…<p>

But Harry had come to him.

That meant that something really _was_ up, he thought as he navigated his way around a smashed bottle of Stella and onto a zebra crossing. He could scarcely remember the last time that she had ever gone out of her way for anyone that she wasn't dating. Her world rarely extended outside of her work, her friends and her love life. Family was somewhat of an afterthought, but he supposed that he couldn't blame her.

John hovered by the gate and waited for a bus to pass before he crossed the other half of the road. The clouds were spitting flecks of rainwater down and his leg was acting up, but he could already see the lit interior of the Black Bull. He was only a little bit late. He would get to sit down soon.

He waved away the lingering tug of guilt from behind his chest (he had only spent fifteen minutes with Sherlock and twenty-five with Ms. Monroe, but that was scarcely _fair_) and let himself into the pub.

It wasn't much warmer inside- somebody had left the window open and evening was beginning to fall- but Harry was sat at a table in the far corner of the pub… without a drink.

Well, that was odd.

"John," she breathed, leaning back from where she had been hunched over her phone. She kept it in one hand, occasionally letting her eyes flick back to the screen. "Thanks for coming. I'm glad I caught you before you went home."

He propped up his cane against the table and caught it when it almost slipped. Settling down was a bit of a production when his leg was feeling as stiff as it was, but he managed a grimacing smile and she reluctantly returned it. That was one of the few features that they shared- their mother's lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "Were you going to order something?"

"Nah. I really just wanted to- you know- get your opinion."

John wondered if it would be rude to flag down somebody and ask for a glass of tap water. He decided against it, inhaled, exhaled. Fine. He would bite.

"Alright. What's this about Alice, then?"

The story tumbled from her in fragments. She had been with Alice for nearly two months and Alice had been studying in Philadelphia for several years before she moved back to London. Her mother had died when she was just a girl. Her father and stepmother lived in Hampshire and they openly resented her relationship with Harry. She tried to distance herself from them as well as she could, but her father still called regularly- something about money and when she would get it and what she would use it for – that part was glossed over. She was sweet and soft-spoken and steadfast and everything had been going relatively well, as far as Harry had known.

"Then she went home last week to visit for a little bit. They coaxed her back. It's her little brother's birthday or something- the little brute is turning ten, maybe eleven. She was meant to come back this morning, then to have dinner with us later, but…"

"She didn't."

"No," Harry sighed, "she didn't. I waited at Waterloo for nearly two hours. She hasn't been answering her texts since she left. Or emails. Or, well, anything. I tried calling, but it went straight to the answering machine. I've left messages and I even sent her a bloody letter, except…"

She paused and pushed her fingers through thick, dirty-blonde hair. "I know what you're thinking, John."

"Do you, now?" John very much doubted it- he had been thinking about zinnias and wondering in the back of his mind if he had enough money in his pocket for even a half-pint of ale.

"I don't think that she left me. And- and even if she did, she wouldn't have left me to live with her _parents_. They're horrible to her. Even her brother is awful. If she has, then I'll drop it- but I want to hear it from her own lips."

John gave up with feeling for coins and leaned forward, elbows directly on the table, forehead creased in thought. This did sound unusual- there was no mistaking that- but…

"I want you to come to Hampshire with me."

And there it was. Inhale, exhale.

"Harry, I'm skint. I can't afford to trounce off to Hampshire on a hunch. I have things to do."

He didn't really have things to do. The only item that had consistently been on his schedule for the last month was 'babble at comatose patients who cannot physically leave when I bore them'.

"I've already bought your ticket."

She caught his hands and held them down against the sticky surface of the table, her lips twisting into a serious, thin line. Her eyes had rings around them, but they were perfectly clear. Her speech hadn't slurred for a moment. Her fingers were clammy against his wrists. She hadn't even tucked her cropped hair back behind her ears like she always did when she was lying or when she wanted something. He thought long and hard about any other motivations that she could _possibly_ have- and he came up short.

"Oh."

"The train is at half past five, so we'd better head up now. Come on."

Her coat, which had pooled around her waist when she had taken it off, was pulled up and secured. Lord- the black of her raincoat against her skin made her seem even paler.

She took his cane and offered him a hand out of the booth.

"John."

She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to ask. She didn't want to give him the opportunity to refuse.

"Please."

He took Harry's hand and let her help him to his feet. They both ignored the looks that they got from the bartender and headed out the door.

* * *

><p>The train took an hour and fifteen minutes. The taxi from the station took twenty-five. They barely talked, for nothing really needed to be said. Harry's hands twisted the strap of the rucksack in her lap- the only betrayal of her fraying nerves.<p>

John had once been told that he had a 'supreme gift for silence' and he supposed that it continued to hold true. He let Harry think as his mind floated back to the hospital on Whitechapel Road, to the new bouquet of flowers that sat on the sill, to their recipient. Sherlock would be where he'd left him when he returned. It was a small comfort, a vague point to keep his thoughts occupied as they careened through the thinning suburbs and into the dark country lanes. Even if it had been a clear night, even if they had been able to glance out the windows at the stars, the steady line of trees would have obscured most of them. It was a shame, really. London was terrible for even the most casual star gazer.

The trees around them became denser and denser as they continued on, until only the headlights of their cab and a few token streetlamps fought their way through the darkness. A wall, sturdy and unyielding, came into vision as they travelled alongside it. He watched the cold light flicker across the stone until they finally came to a stop before a set of gates.

"D'you want me to tap the horn?" The driver asked as he bent back to look at them. Harry was already halfway out the door, but she hissed a quick, "No, don't. Wait. Please," before stepping out and onto the gravel.

The house was beautifully located, tucked away into the furthest corner of the countryside where the hills stopped and the forest began. An empty field, bordered by a wall and a line of trees, led down to the road that they had arrived on.

Silver Beeches, a stretch away from Dockenfield Street.

The front gate was shut and Harry stood before it, hands resting on the rusting bars.

The manor itself, when one took the beautiful surroundings out of the equation entirely, looked as if it had been on the brink of collapse for years. Ivy climbed beyond the shambling trellises and pressed against the walls, vines digging deep into the mortar of the building. Moss flourished on the opposite side of the house, streaking across the walls unchecked. The weathervane that sat atop the chimney was bent and a flicker of light, as if from a distant, unseen window, warmed the far left side of the brick smokestack. The front window was lit and figures could be seen in the house.

John let himself out of the car and limped, rather slowly, to Harry's side. Her eyes were fixated on the form of a young woman in a long, blue dress. Even from their distance, they could see her shoulders shaking with laughter as she sat in the window.

"Is that-"

"No," Harry answered. "It isn't."

Despite a soft, nagging feeling that developed in the back of his mind, John caught the last train home from Hampshire. Harry paid- and offered to spot him the money if he could come back the following afternoon, after his appointment with Ella and his visit to the hospital. She stayed in a little hotel overnight after spending a long, long time at the gate. They had been forced to leave when they caught the silhouette of an enormous dog heading towards the entrance.

If Harry was going to go back there, with that beast out…

He sent her a text as soon as he arrived back at his bed-sit in London.

'**Don't trespass. Be sensible.**'

John lay on his bed for a good hour before he could get the recurring images of a distant woman laughing in a window and the slowly wilting zinnias on Sherlock's windowsill out of his mind.

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><p><em>Things I have learned whilst writing this chapter:<em>

_- Hampshire, from an aerial perspective, is just as desolate and depressing as Arthur Conan Doyle described it to be. Honestly. Wow._

_- It costs £30 to get from London Waterloo to Hampshire. That is nearly four weeks worth of John's current food budget._

_- Taxi fare would be** extortionate** from Hampshire station to the location that I picked for Silver Beeches. My god._

_Nobody cares, but oh well._

_The next chapter is eventful too, but in less of a 'consulting googlemaps' way and more of a… eh, you'll see._


	5. Chapter 5

{This chapter- and all of the chapters with the hospital / Sherlock's condition - was a thousand times easier to write, thanks to the incredibly useful comments and messages that Eyebrows2 sent me, giving me the background, context and insight that I desperately needed. Thank you so much!

And, of course, a huge thank you to everybody who has been commenting and keeping up with this. I appreciate it. :D }

John woke up with his trigger finger twisted firmly into his sheets, acutely aware that he lacked the familiar weight of a SA80 resting on his shoulder.

There were no doors to kick down, no dusty expanses to throw himself across, no walls to drag himself behind. The dust and the heat had faded away into a bare bedroom with the curtains drawn shut.

His cheeks were damp and his breath was fast and his shoulder _ached_.

He didn't go to his appointment. Ella would ask about his blog and he would lie and then she would ask if he had gone to Mr. Howell's funeral. He wasn't an idiot- he knew that Dr. Stein had told her. She was probably personally responsible for giving Mr. Howell's daughter his address. She would write something about 'attachment issues' on her clipboard.

There was nothing to talk about. His trip to Hampshire with Harry was none of her business. He didn't want to describe his dreams anymore. Nothing ever happened to him.

John sat at his desk past eleven o'clock, drinking cup after cup of tea as he skimmed through the news. He didn't get a single text off of Harry. Ella tried to call twice, but he let his phone ring through to the answering machine. She left a message. He didn't listen to it.

He couldn't stop thinking about clouds of dust.

John arrived at the hospital about two hours earlier than usual, paper under his arm and a drag in his step. Perhaps it was the sharp tang of cleaning solvent or the unusual bustle of the nurses and doctors, but simply being back in a familiar place and being surrounded by that essential movement and energy seemed to wake him up a little better than his three cups of tea.

He rounded the corner from the lift and found that the energy was not radiating from the children's ward as it usually did. It was from the neurology ward.

His immediate thought, upon nearly colliding with a foundation doctor that was rushing through the door with a clipboard, was that somebody was crashing. Ms. Monroe? A new patient? Should he leave? He could hear a muffled argument coming from _somewhere_, but he could barely catch a sentence. Had somebody died?

John hovered uncertainly by the doors and found himself in the way again. He shuffled to the side, apologised, and tried to pinpoint the activity.

Something cold and incomprehensible dropped in his chest.

Sherlock's room.

Maybe he had been optimistic, or perhaps he was simply daft, but that idea had not occurred to him at all. Sherlock was young, he was relatively stable, he was a _detective_. Something about him made him seem, at least to John, somewhat impervious to the laws of nature.

Should he go look? Did he have any business in looking? Would he get in the way? Was Sherlock still hanging on? Would this, too, end in Dr. Stein easing him down with a bad cup of tea and a hand on his shoulder? Could he help? No, of course not, he wasn't insured here, but…

A soft buzzing started up in the back of his mind as he headed into the fray. He'd just peek in through the window, then visit Ms. Monroe until it all cleared up…

The door was pulled open and John found himself face to face with a tall, well-kept stranger. His eyes were darker than his personally tailored suit. He was prim and pressed and, despite the quick movement of the nurses and doctors around him, he seemed entirely unruffled.

John did not have to wonder if his tie could pay for a fortnight's rent at the bed-sit. He knew. He stepped aside, as if to allow John past him, but the two of them hovered where they were. He gripped his cane and the stranger fingered the handle of his umbrella casually before turning to speak over his shoulder.

"I'll be sending it in the next few days with somebody to hook it up appropriately," he said. "Run every single test that you can, Dr. Stein, and keep me informed. I don't want any further oversights."

"Of course," she answered. "We're already looking into it. I'll let you know if anything changes."

Dr. Stein had moved his usual chair to the far corner of the room, presumably to keep it out of the way. She stood by Sherlock's bedside, taking down notes in shorthand, occasionally glancing back up at the monitors and tubes (and, occasionally, the stranger) before back down to her writing.

"If you'll excuse me, Dr. Watson. Dr. Stein."

John had been busy watching the pulse line and, consequently, had not realised that he was standing in the way. He apologised before he could even register that he had been addressed by his name- and the man with the umbrella disappeared entirely.

It didn't really matter, anyway.

He felt more out of place than ever as he stepped inside with his cane and his stained copy of the Metro. In fact, he had just moved to the foot of the bed in an attempt to glance over Dr. Stein's shoulder at what she was scrawling, but...

He sensed a pair of eyes on him. Dr. Stein's pen was still scratching away, chasing the very last threads of thought before they became too fine to catch with her fingers. Nobody stood expectantly at the door.

The machine trilled softly in the background.

He supposed that it said a lot about his expectations when he checked the window before looking to the bed where Sherlock was, as if it was somehow more feasible to find a maniac peering down at him than…

Than…

Sherlock's eyes were open- and they seemed to be fixed on him.

On him.

On John, who was grasping his cane until the edges bit into his palm and left firm imprints. On John, who was wearing one of his oldest, most comfortable sweaters. On John, who was clearly holding a once-discarded newspaper with a partially missing front page.

On the one hand, it was the source of surging, unabashed happiness- and it pushed forth with a soft, appreciative laugh. On the other, it was enough to make him self-conscious – and enough to unsettle him.

"How long has he-"

"Six hours," Dr. Stein answered. "We told his brother about two hours ago- and he came down here to try and throw us through some hoops. He has connections in high places, evidently- but it won't do him much good here, even if he can make the chief executive squirm in his seat. We'll follow procedure."

She secured her pen beneath the clip and thumbed idly through the pages.

"It's about the best we can do. Honestly, it's likely to just be nerves, same as anybody else. You know as well as I do, how family members can react," Dr. Stein said, shifting her weight onto one leg as she flipped through her papers, "Wouldn't you say?"

John murmured something quiet and non-committal until a hand reached his shoulder. He jolted, but he still found himself watching Sherlock closely.

"At least you didn't arrive as early as we expected you to. Mr. Holmes was certainly trying to throw his weight around before you arrived. Did Ella tell you this morning, then? I sent her a text."

Oh.

Damn.

"Erm, no. I… had to cancel my appointment today."

Dr. Stein gave a soft tut, but she smiled anyway and tucked the clipboard beneath her arm.

"Well, I'm sure that it's just as much of a pleasant surprise for you as it is for us. We expected more of a positive reaction from Mr. Holmes when we told him- but I suppose that he's pleased in his own way." She sighed and turned to check the IV. "Our own Mr. Holmes can only fix on objects directly in front of him, but he can also direct his gaze upwards if he makes an effort. We're about to change his bedding and then prop him up, so perhaps you could go visit Ms. Monroe in the meantime?"

John took her up on her suggestion, but he still found it harder than he would have ever guessed to pull himself away from that searching gaze.


	6. Chapter 6

_{I'm sorry that this took a bit longer- have had a bit of a rough weekend!_

_Again, thank you all for the lovely reviews and comments! And, of course, a huge thank you to Eyebrows2 for the background knowledge that basically helps this story keep moving. :D}_

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><p>He couldn't focus on the newspaper for more than a few moments at a time. It felt like the words were sliding away from him, like his attention was being repeatedly drawn back to the room that he had just left.<p>

Ms. Monroe, if she was anywhere near conscious, was probably getting irritated at how long it was taking him to read out the 'guilty pleasure' article about Strictly Come Dancing. She seemed to be somebody who would have cared, once upon a time.

He lasted for about twelve minutes, said goodbye for the day, stood up, took his cane and his newspaper- and lingered by the closed door for another three. It felt as though it took a supreme amount of effort just to step out into the hallway, and he felt an odd wave of relief when he realised that Ms. Monroe definitely couldn't see him hesitate.

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><p>When he made it back to Mr. Holmes' room, it was clear of physicians and nurses. The bedding was fresh. His chair was still directly in Sherlock's line of sight.<p>

It was as though he had moved into the direct glare of a spotlight. A pair of clear, blue-grey eyes locked onto him before he even settled into his seat.

Was it wrong of him to feel slightly disconcerted at how _intense_that stare had become?

Perhaps it was all in his mind. Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps Sherlock was staring through him, rather than _at_ him.

He doubted it. Locked-in patients gained their consciousness before they could open their eyes. That was a basic fact. Sherlock must have listened to him for a little while, at the very least... It was natural to want a face to put to the voice. He could oblige him with that, couldn't he?

"It's nice to see that you're definitely awake," he finally said. "They really ought to have caught that earlier, but I suppose that Dr. Stein is working on it by now."

Sherlock blinked.

"I'm not sure how long you've been conscious, but I've been visiting you for nearly a month. I'm, erm, volunteering here. For a while. I've been reading articles to you."

Those eyes were boring through him. Would somebody, even a detective, have enough strength to inspect and investigate and study as soon as his eyes opened? Surely it was exhausting? Surely there were better things to inspect than a tired volunteer in a shabby jumper?

It was all in his head. He was being stupid. He was being histrionic. It was only awkward because he was _making_ it awkward.

The back of his neck was getting warm.

He opened the Metro with a quick rustle, forced a smile and began to read. He could barely resist the urge to hide his face with the paper, but it seemed cruel. Twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, there couldn't be much to look at.

John Watson wasn't much to look at either, but he was something to take up space between the bed and the wall- and that would have to be enough for now. He could present himself for inspection if Sherlock needed him to. He was plain and dull and everything in his world seemed to be alternating between shades of brown and grey, but he could deal with this slight change in his schedule.

He could cope with being seen and heard, even if he had found some level of comfort in being just as invisible and disembodied to Sherlock as he felt every hour of the day.

It was a small price to pay to help with someone's recovery.

John made it halfway through an article about a narcoleptic thief before his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.

"Oh, I'm sorry- just… One second. It's Harry."

He didn't know why he even expected that to mean anything to somebody like Sherlock, but he fumbled with his paper and nearly missed the call.

"Hello?"

"_John, it's me. Look, can you do me a quick favour, please?"_

He checked his watch, noticed that those eyes were still focused on him, and twisted slightly to the side of his seat- as if it might grant him a bit more privacy.

"I can't go tonight, Harry. I missed my appointment this morning and I'm absolutely exhausted, and-"

"_That's not what I want. Have you got the paper for today? I need to know if they've printed Alice as a missing person yet."_

"I'm volunteering. I'm in the middle of visiting-"

"_For the love of God, you **always** have the flippin' newspaper. Just open it and bloody check, that's all I want."_

"You aren't going to go on their property, are you?"

"_John."_

"Because I'm not about to trigger some ridiculous wild-goose chase."

"_Honestly-"_

"If that bloody creature gets you and it doesn't completely tear your throat out in an instant, I could put money on her family refusing to call an ambulance for you."

"_**John**."_

"Fine, fine…"

His eyes slid back to the bed for a brief moment and he found that Sherlock's attention was still fixed on him. Even though he couldn't think of much else that the detective would be looking at, he could feel his ears going slightly red.

He shuffled through the newspaper twice and didn't find a thing.

"Sorry, Harry. Nothing in here. Now, if you don't mind…"

"_I'll call you tomorrow to check again, but I **know** that it isn't her. She would never… She just wouldn't… I have to go. Come back as soon as you can."_

"I can't just-"

"_Bye."_

With that, John pulled his phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, as if he expected her to call him back. When she didn't, he set it down on the bed and sat properly again, smothering his sigh with his fist.

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "I didn't mean to be rude, but I had to take it. Harry's convinced that…"

Sherlock continued to stare at him- and John wished (for what felt like the tenth time that day) that the other man could at least show some form of expression for him to read. A quirk of a smile or a downturn of those pale lips. Something. A twitch of his brow or a shift of his jaw. Anything. He didn't care what it was.

"… Okay," he sighed, rubbing his temples with his forefingers. "Just to give it context… Alice is Harry's girlfriend- and she's been gone for over a week. There hasn't been any word from her or from anyone at her work. Harry suspects that her family is keeping her hostage, except the woman that looks like Alice that Harry saw in the window _isn__'__t_ her. Or something. I went to Hampshire last night, but I barely came close to helping. They live on this stupidly large estate in the middle of nowhere and it's falling to pieces, so it wouldn't be hard to keep somebody there against their will. I figure that it's about money, somehow. It's always about money. … Not that I really know much. I'm not a detective."

John paused.

"But that's why I had to take the call. I probably won't get another one, so it should be fine."

He read two more stories, but his skin felt just as warm and flushed as it had earlier. How long had he been here? Lord, why was he so self-conscious when he knew that Sherlock could see him? On average, hundreds of people saw him every day, so why was this any different? Why was it affecting him so much? Why was he itching to move out of Sherlock's line of vision?

Somebody knocked on the door to signal the ten minute warning before visiting hours were up.

Maybe tomorrow would be easier.

John finished the third article, folded up his copy of the Metro and fussed with the collar of his coat. His phone went back into his pocket. His lips pursed and parted as if he wanted to say something, but he settled for patting the edge of the bed.

"I guess we'll see each other tomorrow, then," he said. "I hope that you continue to improve- it's nice to see your eyes open."

His hand found Sherlock's knee quite by accident, and he drew it back quickly with an apologetic smile.

"I tend to come around every day, so I guess you'll have to put up with me for a while. At least until you can personally tell me to piss off."

John, his cane, his coat and his Metro disappeared on time, leaving Sherlock- and his twitching fingers- behind.


	7. Chapter 7

_{Aw, I'm glad that you guys liked 'awake Sherlock' (although, technically, he has always been awake and has had consciousness for a while) - thank you so much for your lovely words! Makes writing this fic seem way more fun than it already is! You know, even if I am having an obscene amount of fun with dropping hints about what's to come every so often…}_

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><p>A week after his adventure in Hampshire and six days after Sherlock's eyes first opened, Mr. Holmes appeared with a laptop to put on the little meal table that slid out and over his brother's bed. John lingered in Ms. Monroe's room for as long as he could, if only because he didn't want to be drawn into any forced conversations, but he eventually let himself in.<p>

As far as his impression of Mr. Holmes went, John could not help but notice that he held himself properly. It was not in the straight-backed manner of the soldier by any means, but it rather seemed… sophisticated. Upper class. He possessed the queer affability of a politician that wanted to be liked but, at the same time, that wanted to keep an arm's length from the public. Something in his thin, tight-lipped smile seemed private.

He appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be just as untouchable as his brother.

Dr. Stein was by Sherlock's bedside again, resting with one hand on the white plastic bar. Of course, she would allow somebody to come by and calibrate everything, if it was within visiting hours. They hadn't had a locked-in patient for quite some time and the hospital was supportive of communication, et cetera, et cetera…

John hovered by the door in his heavy brown coat, shifting to the side so as to move into Sherlock's range of vision. Their eyes met- brown with grey- and he managed a small grin.

As the week had passed, Sherlock's stare became less intimidating. That had been a relief. He would have kept volunteering regardless, (quitting of his own accord had never really been an option) but it made his visits easier on the both of them.

It was nicer when he didn't have to constantly feel self-conscious.

"I can have somebody come by in the next day or two," Mr. Holmes told her, turning to shut the laptop and unplug it. "It won't work until he can fix his gaze properly, but it should be of some use. He's improving, isn't he?"

Dr. Stein hesitated for a moment, shifted her clipboard from one arm to the other, tucked a forelock of hair away from her face.

"It's difficult to say," she said to Mr. Holmes. "We're taking him through standard physiotherapy, but the muscle atrophy has taken a toll. The improvements with his fingers moving are good, but… it can take a very long time before motor function returns. Even then, it likely won't be the same as it was before."

Mr. Holmes nodded in understanding, putting pressure on the handle of his umbrella as he turned to look directly at him. That thin smile reappeared and, for a moment, John found himself wondering if Sherlock's looked similar.

"How long would you say it would take, Dr. Watson?"

It was a long, awkward moment before John realised that he was not only being addressed, but that he was also being asked for his input.

"Oh. I don't, uh, work here," he said.

"I know." The tip of Mr. Holmes' umbrella twirled on the linoleum beneath his hands. "I wanted to ask your opinion anyway."

Dr. Stein looked at him- and John felt his ears and the back of his neck go warm.

"Erm- I won't pretend to know the situation more intimately than Dr. Stein, of course, but, if improvement continues… it can easily take a year and a half for somebody to gain the strength to even walk normally. Anything shorter than that would be… highly unusual."

Mr. Holmes lifted his umbrella and rested it on one shoulder. His smile had not faltered for a moment.

"I suppose, then, that it's to our advantage that Sherlock Holmes is a highly unusual person."

He left the hospital room and the flashing of clear, grey eyes in his wake. The two doctors watched him go and the silence stretched between them until it was taut. Finally, Dr. Stein began to fuss with putting the laptop away. It was brand new, still sleek and shining from the package- and she peppered it with fingerprints.

"They always think that their particular case is going to be the exception," she said. "I wonder if he thought he would hear something different from you than he would from me."

John moved to his chair and leaned against one of the arms, pressing his hands into his pockets. His cane fit between his knees.

"He doesn't seem the type, but everyone is a bit odd about their family."

Sherlock's eyes were on him again, but he did his best to ignore them.

"Mr. Holmes in particular. This," she said, tapping the spine of the laptop before sliding it into the case that had been provided, "is a state of the art piece of technology. Once it's calibrated, it should be able to let our Mr. Holmes communicate-"

"Through eye movements," he said, tilting his head slightly. "But isn't it a bit early to expect somebody to have the energy to control a computer through staring and blinking?"

Even if Sherlock was particularly good at staring, he only seemed comfortable with fixing his gaze- and occasionally glancing up or, at rare occasions, down. John had had the good manners not to comment when the simple strain of keeping his eyes open made Sherlock desperate to rest for a while.

"It's even earlier for him to get back to work."

"You're joking."

"No, those were his exact sentiments. Apparently, once he can use a computer, he can start solving crimes again."

"Solving- _solving __crimes-_"

He slid into his chair without even thinking about it, bending to support his elbows on his knees. His fingers rubbed small, constant circles against his temples, but they did little to nothing in helping him digest the stupidity of that concept. There was no _way_ that somebody who had just managed to wake up after a bloody _coma_ could possibly expect to set after the thugs and louts of London.

"He has a website, apparently," Dr. Stein added as she wound the cord up into a loop. Everything about her voice was tight. "Science of… something or another. Mr. Holmes was talking about some sort of backlog of people needing his assistance."

"Well, yeah, I'm sure there is a backlog, but…"

A pair of clear, grey eyes stared him down. He caught sight of them between the cracks of his steepled fingers and a pang of guilt made his stomach turn unpleasantly.

"…We'll just have to see."

Dr. Stein paused from where she was placing the bag into the small bedside table for safe keeping. "Yes," she said, standing and straightening up. "We'll see."

The reality of it all seemed to graze both of them at the same time. Sherlock might never be able to adequately use his laptop. He might catch pneumonia, as locked-in patients often do. It might end poorly, despite the amount of money that Mr. Holmes would be willing to pump into his treatment.

She nodded softly to him and left the two of them to their own devices.

John read him an article about a family of drug dealers in Liverpool, an article about pathological liars and something about the solar system. He stayed for a little longer than usual under the pretence of checking for news of Alice Rucastle as a missing person in the paper. She still wasn't there.

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><p>He went home and made his tea- a bowl of soup and toast without butter- before he remembered what Dr. Stein had told him about Sherlock's website. Would it be prying to look through it?<p>

… What would it be like to read what he had once written before he went under? John only knew and understood his silence. He didn't have an inkling of how his mind worked. He didn't know what his voice sounded like. He scarcely knew anything about him. He was a puzzle with missing pieces. He could already tell that his life had been interesting.

Or, at least, more interesting than his own.

He couldn't resist.

A quick search brought up 'The Science of Deduction'.

As far as websites went, Sherlock's wasn't half bad. It wasn't plain like his blog was and it wasn't gaudy or flashy or stupid. There wasn't an advertisement to be seen. He could clearly type- and his sentences were thankfully devoid of abbreviations, slang and spelling or grammatical mistakes.

For some odd reason, that was a bit of a relief.

He scrolled down and, quelling the tremble of anticipation in his chest, he started to read.

_"I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective._

_I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please."_

…

There was something distinctly off-putting about those four, simple sentences. Was Sherlock arrogant? He had never placed a lot of thought into his character traits before. Honestly, he had never felt the need to. He certainly didn't know very much about Ms. Monroe, but it was comforting to at least believe that the people that he visited weren't _prats_. What was there to misinterpret about detective work? What was a consulting detective anyway? How good was he if he could cherry pick his cases? Was he magnificent or pretentious?

… How bored had Sherlock _been_, with only stories of petty crime to tide him over every day?

Another wave of guilt and anxiety pressed against him as he continued to skim through the content. He observes, he deduces, he decides.

Had he already solved John Watson without even needing to speak to him? Was that what those piercing eyes were doing whenever they rested on him?

He shook his head, managed a soft laugh and kneaded his bad shoulder with his thumb and forefingers. No, he decided. He didn't talk about himself enough to give Sherlock anything to go on. And even then, what reason did he have for being nervous? He wasn't hiding a damn thing.

John continued to read.

The case files detailed puzzles that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to solve and a long list of finished investigations. Most of the links had timed out, which was a shame.

The forum only merited a quick skim on John's part. Sherlock didn't post many messages about himself, which was what he was really after. Apparently, he needed to find somewhere new to live, due to an incident with his landlord.

The rest were messages from clients, oldest to newest.

Murder charges, blackmailing, being framed, missing people, stumbling into trouble, a young woman that had taken a curious job in the country in which she was expected to cut off all of her hair, suspected foul play, lost terriers…

He heaved a slow sigh and shut his laptop, turning back to his soup.

It felt as though he had betrayed Sherlock's trust- and he had come out none the richer for it.

Every spoonful was cold.


	8. Chapter 8

_{Hey guys, thank you so much for being patient. Have been dealing with a lot of IRL stuff, but here's the new chapter anyway, haha.}_

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><p>In the next two days, his eye movement continued to slowly improve. His eyes flickered to meet John at the door the next day and, on the Saturday, he managed to shakily follow his movements from the hall to the chair.<p>

Of course, once he had settled down and started to read, those clever eyes fell shut for a while. He chose to believe that Sherlock only needed to rest- and not that the articles that he had printed off at the library were just as boring to him as the articles from the Metro had been.

He breached the issue five minutes before he had to leave.

"I looked you up on the internet the other day."

He creased the print-outs in his lap, folding them inside of the day's issue of the Metro.

"Found your website. The… Science of Deduction."

Even though he was across the room, even though he was paying particular attention to one of the cuticles that he had been chipping away at with his thumbnail, he felt those eyes open and focus upon him again.

John looked up and wished, for the thousandth time, that he could at least _express_ himself- but he still fancied that he caught the edge of a smirk in Sherlock's eyes for a fleeting moment.

"You said that you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

Sherlock said nothing, but the corner of his lip seemed to twitch. He blinked, and John could almost hear the unimpressed 'And?' resonating in the silence that spread between them.

"Whether or not that's even _possible_, I'm sure that you've noticed that I've started going online for articles. You… probably need something more substantial to keep your mind occupied."

Another blink.

He did not want to ask what Sherlock knew about him. It would be rather self-indulgent anyway, especially when the man was still unable to reliably communicate. For now, he worked as hard as he could to suppress his morbid curiosity- and to convince himself that he did not want to know.

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><p>Dr. Stein caught him as soon as he left Sherlock's room and took him for a cup of tea in the doctor's lounge. In a way, it was a welcome change of scenery. Everything was different from his old hospital, but the familiar, soft humming of a coffee machine in the background seemed to make him feel better immediately.<p>

"He's making a lot of progress," she told him, legs hooked one over the other as she daubed the tea bag against the side of her mug. "You've probably already noticed his improved eye movement. It's far from perfect, but he's able to move out of a fixed stare, when he applies himself."

The spent tea bag went onto a napkin and Dr. Stein took a small, slow sip.

"Physiotherapy could be better, but his finger movement is already improving a little faster than we expected it to. It's a bit unusual, but we aren't about to hold him back."

Dr. Stein managed a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Something turned slightly in his stomach.

"You didn't take me aside just to talk about Sherlock's improvement, though," John said. There she was again, dancing around the damn issue as if he was likely to break down crying like a child. What was it _now_? Was Ms. Monroe ill? Was she getting worse? She had been looking pretty pale, he supposed, and her family had made a trip over to visit just the other day…

"No," she admitted. "I didn't. I wanted to remind you that even though this is very good- and even though he's doing better than we generally would have anticipated-"

"He might never recover fully, or he won't walk or get his voice back- it's fine. I know that it's against the odds."

But he still completely expected that recovery to eventually happen. Could she tell? Was that why she stretched out a hand to rest on his shoulder?

Dr. Stein picked the bad one and he winced. She pulled it away apologetically.

"There's that- and there's the other risks. You weren't a neurologist, were you, John?"

He shook his head.

"Well, I just wanted to explain that it's not _just_ against the odds. With locked-in patients, there's a very high chance that they'll contract pneumonia within four months of consciousness."

"How high?"

"About ninety percent."

Oh. Right.

John let her guide the rest of the conversation- and bits and pieces of it washed over him every so often. They were keeping up physiotherapy. The laptop was being configured and calibrated that afternoon, but it probably would require a lot of tweaking before it could be easily used. Mr. Holmes was still trying to throw his weight at the board of directors to have them do _something_ else…

He couldn't remember the walk from the doctor's lounge to the elevators, or from the elevators to the edge of his road. He realised that he'd left the newspaper and the articles from the library on the table when he reached for his keys.

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><p>The next day, the laptop sat on the pull-out table in front of Sherlock Holmes, and his eyes flickered up for a moment to watch him move over to his chair. He was definitely getting better at following John's movements, but the light of that screen had to be straining his eyes.<p>

"Doesn't that hurt at all?" he asked, fussing with the paper and thumbing through it. "I wonder if it's difficult to control."

He didn't get an answer, but he hadn't really expected one, even with the laptop in place. Sherlock would have to expend a huge amount of energy into controlling it and, although he was doing well, it all seemed a bit too optimistic to John. They probably weren't too easy to calibrate…

He flipped past an article about a nest full of duck eggs that had been found inside a bank and he nearly skimmed through to the Sudoku puzzle before…

'_CAMDEN WOMAN REPORTED MISSING'_

Flipping back as quickly as he could, John let a quick "oh god," pass his lips before he began to read:

_"A missing persons report has been filed for ALICE RUCASTLE after she did not report for work on Thursday. She is 31 and she was due to return from visiting family members in Hampshire earlier this week. Her family has denied knowledge of her whereabouts…" _

A photo, smaller than the length of his thumb, showed a blurry facebook photo of a smiling woman with her hair cut back in a short, chestnut bob. Just as Harry had told him, she looked strikingly similar to the laughing woman that he had seen in the window the week before…

"I have to make a call," he said quickly, folding his paper and pulling himself to his feet. He paced back and forth between the door and the window. "I have to go to Hampshire and make sure that Harry doesn't do something to get put in prison… God, I need to figure out train times- I can scarcely afford…"

He forced himself to stop.

Sherlock was looking up at him again. Then, his eyes flickered back to the chair on the other side of the room, where his cane was still propped up against the wall.

John made himself move slowly to his usual spot at the foot of Sherlock's bed as his leg began to cramp slightly.

"I have to go," he said awkwardly, grabbing the handle of his cane and dragging the seam of the plastic along the inside of his palm. "I'm really sorry that I have to cut this one short, Sherlock. I don't know when I'll be back. Hopefully in time for tomorrow, but I- god, I have to go."

John Watson made it to Waterloo Station in thirty minutes and, for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to go into his overdraft to pay for the train ticket. He had forgotten his Metro in Sherlock's room again, but what he really missed most of all was the Browning that had been left behind in his desk drawer.

He spent the next hour trying to convince himself that he would not need it.

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><p><em>{Next chapter is the big one. I think I've put all the establishing pieces in place... this is going to be fun! Thank you all for your lovely comments and for being so patient with me! :D I'll do my best to be faster with the next one.}<em>


	9. Chapter 9 Revised

_{Oh god, this chapter was hell and a half to finish. December was honestly insane for me - I had an internship in London to deal with and a lot of difficult family stuff to tend to. Then I ended up pulling the previous version off of this fic because I hated the ending so much. It was clumsy, confused and beyond lazy of me. I was desperately clinging to the canon when I genuinely didn't need to, adding extra characters and lines just as a nod and a wink to the people that had recognised what this was all building to - a modernisation of The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. Then I realised what I'd done about 4 hours later and dragged it back into production._

_BUT, it's safe to say now that I do not absolutely despise this chapter anymore. I've clarified things, I've reinforced the story, I've patched plot holes and logic gaps and I've strengthened and completely changed the ending- for the better._

_Also, a note - the timeline will not be up until I post the next part in about a week. It still holds true and is accurate- but I posted it because the entire thing was so confusing, as opposed to 'showing what was going on behind the scenes' and showing how much work I've put into this damn thing. I posted it for all the wrong reasons, and I'll repost it when the time is right._

_So, if you read it last time, please give it another chance._

_If you haven't read it yet - I really hope that you enjoy it._

_Thanks so much for your patience and your lovely comments- you guys are so great.}_

_**TRIGGER WARNING: VIOLENCE / VIOLENCE AGAINST AN ANIMAL**  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"Hey, it's me. Look, uh, you probably know by now, but Alice's missing persons report is in the paper. I've just made the train, so I'll be there soon and we can contact the police together. I'll go with you. Give me a call."<em>

_"Harry, it's me. I'm halfway to Hampshire- let's… let's meet up for a drink, and we'll figure out a plan together."_

_"It's me again. Which hotel are you staying at? Let me know."_

_"Harry, call me back."_

_"I know you're ignoring me- call me back. I need to talk to you."_

_"I'm going to march right up to their front door- is that what you want?"_

_"If you know something that I don't, you'd best call me, Harry. I'm going in blind unless you let me **know** what's happening."_

**_"Don't do anything stupid until we can plan it."_**

* * *

><p>Harry didn't pick up a single one of his calls and a knot of doubt swelled beneath his ribcage, making the walk up from Dockenfield Street that much longer. The driver had offered to take him closer, but he needed time to think and plan on his own.<p>

The air was getting colder as night closed in, and the forests stifled what was left of the sun's warmth and light. He followed the fading line on the shoulder of the road, and for all its beauty, the clear countryside seemed menacing without the light of day or the thrumming of distant engines in the background.

John had always held the gift of silence close to him, and now he was swathed in it.

He had to assess the situation.

Naturally, Harry's account of the current circumstances would be too emotionally charged. Like every Watson before her was and always would be, she was protective- and Alice was gone. She had to act, and in her mind, there was nothing else to it.

But there _had_ to be.

John didn't rush as the shoulder tapered off into the empty road. He limped through the grit and the upturned mud with his jaw set.

He had to think practically.

What would a detective do?

What would _Sherlock_ do?

The usual thoughts floated to the surface first. He didn't know Sherlock. He didn't know what he was like when he worked. He barely knew anything about detectives anyway, but he knew that they planned and reasoned before they acted. That was enough for him to hold onto.

Okay.

What would _Poirot_ do?

As he neared the flickering, weak light of the lanterns at the gate, he thought back to every Christie book that he had read as a teenager. He couldn't expect to sit down civilly with the Rucastles and confront them about the disappearance of their daughter. He had no leverage, and he might be wrong. He had to draw the correct conclusion, and then act.

John had to ask somebody in the house.

The fence that bordered the estate seemed to go on forever, and he let his eyes slide over the rough brush that had grown and tangled into knots against the iron. There was no trace of the beast, or of Harry.

_"Harry, I'm here now- and, well, you aren't. You honestly need to contact me- I'm just about to head up to the house and everything-"_

His sentence was cut short by a loud, shrill tone and a mechanical voice. He had less than a minute of credit.

_"-look, I'm out of credit. I'm going up there whether you're around or not, unless you call me back before I get there. You know that I'm not the type to-"_

The signal cut off.

"... Bluff."

Everything was still when he was this far from the main road. Thick clouds were slowly locking the last shreds of sunlight away for the evening. When he reached it, the visitor's gate gave way easily beneath his hands.

John allowed himself a long, steadying breath before he stepped onto the property. His grip on his cane tightened. It was still early. He could pretend to be a salesman of some sort…

Still no sign of the beast.

In fact, save for the light that blazed from the front window and from the second storey, there didn't seem to be much life hidden away behind the small copse of silvering beeches. Even as he approached the front door from the drive, he couldn't see any cars parked out front.

Had they left the lights on as a ploy while they were away?

The flicker of a silhouette crossing the room behind the curtains caught his eye, and he took the final steps to the door.

Whoever it was would have to answer a few questions about the entire affair. John adjusted his grip on his cane, reached up- and knocked.

There was a sudden flurry of footsteps from inside, and not-Alice opened the door in a matter of moments. When she saw him, her lips parted into a quick, almost relieved smile.

"Oh, thank god," she said, stepping back to usher him inside. "Yes, you'll do. You really had me worrying, you know! I thought that you might get lost on the way- I've done it, just as he said- we've just got to hurry."

John let himself be pulled inside, but he was already rolling through every possibility that he could think of in double time. She had mistaken him for somebody else and now she was going to make him fix a leaky sink or a creaking floorboard, she was mad, the family had set up an elaborate trap for him (or Harry) to stumble into…

The door fell shut behind him, and in that same instant, he noticed the distant sound of knocking and banging from deep within the house.

"Done what?" he demanded, clenching his fingers around the handle of his cane, "what _is_ that?"

"Mrs. Toller," she said slowly, looking at him like he was some sort of simpleton. "You clearly aren't as up to date as I hoped. I don't have time to explain, so I'll have to sum it up. Mr. Toller has passed out drunk on the kitchen floor, the Rucastles are away- but not for long- and I locked Mrs. Toller in the cellar, so we've got a clear path to the far wing of the house."

John stared at her. He couldn't think of much else to do. Not-Alice really did look remarkably like the young woman in the photograph, now that he had the chance to see her properly. She was tall and bird-like, thin and somewhat graceful- but there seemed to be a fierce determination that had not come across in the photo that the Metro had chosen of her double. Her hair, which had been closely cropped to just beneath her jaw, was the exact same shade of chestnut as Alice's. Her eyes were dark and there was an odd challenge to the way that her lips quirked into a smile. The one thing that she had that Alice definitely didn't was a thick spread of freckles over the bridge of her nose and the apples of her cheeks.

For a brief moment, he wondered what Sherlock would have made of her. The thought flickered away like ash on the wind.

Not-Alice gave a heavy, irritated sigh. "That's where _Alice_ is, but I need your help with the barricade. I can't do it on my own."

"Right." He paused for a moment, watching her turn on her heel and start up the flight of stairs. "And... who are you, exactly?"

"Violet," she said over her shoulder, and he knew at once that he wouldn't be getting any further information about her until the job was done. That would have to do, he thought as he began to climb behind her.

The banging faded as they reached the second floor, but with the limited information at his disposal, he could scarcely shake the idea that he was somehow being tricked. It already felt like he had been roped into something that he had no hope of understanding.

"Honestly," she said, pressing hard on a door with her shoulder until it gave way, "for a professional, that man really is terrible at communicating."

Something pulled in his stomach, and John let the door to the stairwell swing shut behind him as he did his best to keep up. The landing was tight and difficult to navigate with his cane, and low, painful pulses kept his mind mostly on his leg for the time being.

"'He'- you keep saying 'he' - who the hell are you talking about?"

Violet didn't turn around to face him as she led the way down another thin hall, but her exasperation was nearly tangible in the corridor that they shared. John didn't care if he was getting on her nerves- he deserved to at least know what _she _thought was going on, especially if he was about to help her dismantle a section of somebody else's house.

She scoffed, stopped in front of a small door and pulled a ring of keys out of her pocket to flick through them hurriedly. For a moment, it was almost as if she expected him to come to his own conclusions, but he didn't oblige her in that respect. John reached the door that she had stopped at and waited a few paces back, watching her fuss with the lock. Waiting. "Mr. Holmes said that I _might_ have to explain things to you," she said, "but you really must keep up."

_"Mr. Holmes?"_

Why would Mr. Holmes be in contact with this girl? He had always seemed too important to take up individual cases, and John had always imagined that he held a higher, more impersonal post than that. He seemed the type to delegate responsibilities instead of taking them into his own hands. Dr. Stein had implied that he had a job with the government- it was certainly _possible_ that he worked with the cases of missing people, but-

"I sent him a message on his website before I took my job here. Took almost a month for him to get back to me- I was nearly going mad on my own- but here you are, just when he said you would be…"

No.

She flicked one of the keys back around on the chain and tried a new one.

There was absolutely no way in hell-

The third key fit, twisted and opened the door with a generous shove on Violet's part.

His recovery had been good, but surely it wouldn't be good enough to-

"Come on!"

There wasn't time to dwell on the medical improbabilities that Sherlock's involvement brought to mind. He shoved the thoughts to one side, left the door ajar behind him and followed her into the musty darkness.

The passage before them had been stripped of its carpeting decades ago, leaving the wooden floor rough beneath their feet. From what John could surmise, the rest of the house had been modestly furnished for its size, but there were no photographs or paintings on the walls. It felt as though they had stepped backstage, far behind the basic pretences of the Rucastle family and into something deeper. It seemed as though Violet felt it too, for she held herself stiffly as she led the way.

The hall stretched and twisted, ultimately leading to a set of three doors. The second door was the only one that she was interested in, and it had been blocked with an iron bar from a dismembered bed. The bar was padlocked to the wall on the right side and secured with a thick, heavily knotted cord on the left.

There was a very distant slam.

Violet jumped. She fumbled through her pockets for a blade and brought a small kitchen knife forward with slightly trembling hands.

"We've got to be quick," she said as she set the blade against the cord and began to cut. "I'm going to need your help to break down the door, and there's no telling what state she might be in."

The cord weakened and snapped, catching the door with a crack as John reached forward to drag the bar down and away. There didn't seem to be any movement or reaction from inside. "I don't hear anything," he said, "come on- we'll put all of our weight against it on three."

It took two hard, uncoordinated slams of their shoulders and elbows before the door gave way.

The two of them were in.

For a moment, John wondered if his eyes were failing him in the darkness. It almost seemed as if-

"Alice?" Violet fumbled for the lamp and switched it on.

The room was as sparse and as rough as the cramped hallway that led to it. There was a small, unmade pallet bed, a little table and a basket full of crumpled sheets. Two books sat on the floor next to the bed. An open door led to a small toilet and shower cubicle. The skylight was slightly open, to let in fresh air. He could almost make out two hooks that seemed to belong to a particularly tall ladder. It was nightfall already.

She wasn't there.

John, who had pushed inside first, turned on his heel and kept a tight grip on his cane. It _had_ been a trap. He had been deceived, he had been an _idiot_, and now he was in the middle of nowhere with Alice Rucastle's doppelganger. She stood between him and the door with the blade still in her hand and-

Thunderous footsteps, heavy and quick, pummelled the stairs as somebody stumbled through the thin hallway, pushing their weight from wall to wall. Something cracked and clacked against the walls and the floor.

"_Violet!_"

She threw herself away from the door in an instant and, as soon as she did, the bulky form of a man fell into the frame. Face red, veins standing out against his temple, eyes fierce and small, Mr. Rucastle towered over the flimsy shreds of the broken barricade and bared his teeth. It was no wonder that she forgot the knife that she was holding and drew back to stand beside John, who had pulled his cane up and against his body. It was a pitiful defence against the raw fury in his eyes and the heavy stick between his reddened fingers.

"Where's Alice?" she demanded, forcing herself to stand tall as he cast his eyes about the little prison and let his rage rise into a growl in his throat, "where have you moved her?"

"What did _I_ do? What did _you_ do, you half-wit? Who the hell is this?"

John reassessed his situation in a heartbeat and moved two paces forward to confront him, placing himself between the man and Violet. The room seemed too small to contain the anger that was pushing from him in waves, but John didn't shrink back. His cane wouldn't make much of an impact, but it might be enough to shove him away, if the situation came to it.

"We haven't _done_ anything-" John started, but his own voice sounded out of place in comparison to the rumbling, low snarl that filled the little room. He was acutely aware of Violet's presence behind him, and of the fact that he hadn't needed to defend himself since Afghanistan-

"I've caught you in the act though, haven't I? Breaking into my house, stealing away my daughter- god, I've got you right in the palm of my hand!"

Mr. Rucastle turned on his heel to rush down the stairs. As soon as he was out of sight, Violet was stumbling past him and over the ruined barricade to look out into the hall.

"He's going for the dog- it hasn't been fed in days!"

"I've got my-" John immediately felt in his coat pockets, but he already knew that the comforting weight of his Browning wasn't there. Why hadn't he taken a fifteen minute detour for the damn thing when he had the chance? He had known about the hound from the beginning… "- We need to lock him out before he can let the bloody thing in!"

His head was ringing. Everything was buzzing. The dog had already been whipped into a frenzy of barking and baying. Idiot, idiot, idiot, should have brought his Browning, should have found a weapon, should have stuck to volunteering and his appointments and flicking through the most banal stories that the Metro had to offer…

His dash down the stairs in front of Violet was not graceful. They stumbled and tripped and fell over the upturned rug that Mr. Rucastle had left behind him. They cursed and scrambled and they both lunged at once for the front door, which had been left ajar. Distant sirens were blaring and looping behind his frenzied thoughts- just lock it, come on, shut it, just shove it shut, lock it, lock it, _lock it-_

The baying seemed closer, louder, sharper-

A scream of agony, quite unlike any that he had ever heard away from the front line and the dust and the sand, shot through them. It was soon joined by the sound of thick jaws clamping onto thick flesh.

He and Violet stopped and looked at each other for one long, horrible moment. All of the colour had drained from her face. She looked as if she was about to be sick.

"The fool," she breathed, "only _Mr. Toller_ can control him-"

John found his feet and tore out of the front door that they had failed to shut, blindly rounding the corner of the house and leaving Violet to stumble behind him. The moon was too weak to see by, but the light outside of the shed had been left to flicker in the darkness.

And there it was.

The beast was standing squarely over Rucastle as he thrashed, burying its teeth into the folds where his neck and shoulder met and firmly _pulling_ the skin back and forth. The sound was horrific, the sirens were building in the back of his mind and, without a moment to consider otherwise, he ran behind the thrashing pair and brought his cane down upon the back of the mastiff's neck, near the base of its skull. It drew back, teeth still fixed onto the rolls of skin- and it turned its attention to John.

For every time that he had worried about Harry squaring off with this beast on her own, he had never considered that he might be in that very position days later. It rounded on him with a darkened muzzle and, when it pulled its lips back into a growl, he could catch the glint of keen, white teeth at the very back of its mouth.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!"

The mastiff lunged forward and skirted against John's side as he pulled back and tried, rather clumsily, to beat it over the neck again. He barely managed to strike over its great shoulders before it turned upon him in an instant, unfazed and furious.

Everything seemed to be a hundred miles away from him. Rucastle's garbled screams, Violet's cries of horror, the distant calls of strangers, the sirens-

He stumbled back, thrust his cane out and caught the handle in the dog's clamping jaws. He shoved it further down the creature's throat and-

A blast of gunfire caught the back of the mastiff's skull and its weight collapsed beneath it. The handle of his cane was still wedged between its teeth when it fell.

John's leg gave out beneath him as he looked at the scene without truly _seeing_ anything, save for the beast that was still twitching on the grass. Sound slowly flooded back to him- loud shouts, hysterical sobs, the dry screams of Mr. Rucastle, "John", "John", "John"…

He struggled to pull himself up from where he had half-knelt on the damp grass. The man needed a doctor, needed medical attention, needed a pair of steady hands, needed to be kept from bleeding out in his own garden... He made it three feet from the mastiff before his knee completely buckled beneath his weight and gave out, leaving him to sit uselessly on the grass. Maybe, if he could just pull himself across…

A hand clasped onto his bad shoulder, keeping him in place.

"John Watson!"

"What?" His voice cracked slightly. Across the grass, two people in high-visibility coats had reached Mr. Rucastle and were kneeling by his side. One of them was already rummaging through a full bag of equipment.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm… fine. I'm fine. Do they need-"

He couldn't see Mr. Rucastle for the paramedics that obstructed his view. An officer had draped a blanket over Violet's shaking shoulders and was attempting to understand her through her thick, panicked sobs. An old man with a red face stood beneath the flickering light of the shed. He swayed lightly on the spot, but held his ground as another policeman spoke to him.

When John looked up and away from the scene, it was into the open, honest face of a young police officer… with a phone to his ear.

"He's in capable hands," the man said, and John recognised that line from the hospital- and the field. He couldn't tell if the officer was directing his statement to the person on the other end of the line, or if he was talking to him. Finally, the policeman pulled the phone from his ear to speak to him. "Are you in any shape to take this call?"

John didn't think about it. He took the mobile and drew it up to his ear as if it was the most natural thing in the world- as if he had been completely expecting a call on a policeman's phone- as if he wasn't sitting three feet away from the corpse of a large dog- as if he hadn't just failed to thwart the kidnapping of his sister's girlfriend…

Stranger things had happened that evening.

"… Hello?"

_"If you intend to continue indulging him, Dr. Watson, I would suggest that you keep your Browning in a more convenient place. I trust that you are none the worse for wear?" _The caller had a smooth, measured voice, and it was almost too low to hear over the noise in the background. Something about it made his hair prickle on the back of his neck.

It was familiar.

"Sorry? Who's this?" he asked, turning to look for the officer that had given him the phone. He had already left.

_"An ally."_

"You'd be a better ally if I knew who you were-" John tried, but he could hear the caller tutting in soft disagreement across the line.

_"That isn't of much consequence," _the voice told him,_ "Rather, I'm here to ask you for your cooperation."_

"My cooperation with what?"

John licked his lips and sat back slightly in the grass, watching a policewoman wrap a comforting arm around Violet. An elderly woman had left the house and had taken up a spot by the old man's side. She spoke quickly and earnestly to the officer that had been questioning him. More police had arrived, and in the flurry of people crossing between the house and the side shed, he could only see flashes of the paramedics as they transferred Mr. Rucastle into the waiting ambulance. He was dimly aware of his pocket vibrating, but he dismissed it. Only a text.

_"Regardless of whether you decide to return as a volunteer or not, do not tell Dr. Stein about Sherlock's involvement."_

Something clicked.

"Mr. Holmes?"

_"He needs this, Dr. Watson. Your involvement is entirely arbitrary, of course. I won't force you into making a decision. In fact, I expect that you already know what you're going to do. But, if you do choose to go back…" _he paused,_ "let Sherlock know that I'll correct the sensitivity of his laptop over the weekend."_

There wasn't enough time to object before the call disconnected. John held the phone loosely in his fingers, running his thumb over the ridges of the case as his thoughts twisted and coiled in the back of his mind. In a matter of moments, the officer was back again with an orange blanket.

"I'm fine, thanks," John said, passing the mobile back and moving to stand. "I'm not going to have to answer a lot of questions, am I?"

"Afraid so. We've been unable to locate Miss Rucastle, and we'd like to confirm your version of tonight's events. A necessary evil, Mr. Watson." He shifted the blanket from one arm to the other. "Are you sure that you don't want this?"

John shook his head and completely pulled himself up, ignoring the stiffness in his leg as he brushed the dirt and grass off of his trousers. He was going to need a new cane, although he had no idea if he could even afford one. Shame, really- he had grown somewhat fond of that one…

"It might be easier for you to sit- we could go to the car, if that would help."

John reached down and pulled his phone out of his pocket. One new text, no missed calls.

"**The Swan Hotel**," he muttered, heaving a very slow sigh. His fingers reached up to knead at his forehead for a moment. He glanced wearily over his surroundings. The ambulance was already a blurry set of tail lights in the distance, the old couple were being taken back inside, out of the wind, Violet was leaning awkwardly against a police car…

"Give me a minute, won't you?" he asked, "I'll be right back."

While the ground under his feet wasn't nearly as slippery as it had felt earlier that evening, he still walked with as much caution as he could muster. Violet stood properly when she saw him coming and offered him an arm to link with his. As kind as the gesture was, he didn't need the support.

"You were on the phone," she said, rubbing at her raw cheeks with one corner of her shock blanket. He could hear her voice wavering between them in the cold, crisp air. "Was it Mr. Holmes? I'll- I'll let him know that you did a good job."

John gave her a half-smile.

"Don't worry about it. You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm alright. Just… I can't say that I expected that." Everything, from the soft laugh that she gave to the way that she rubbed her eyes seemed hollow. Exhausted.

Their conversation was short and quiet. John wanted to leave and Violet had completely lost her adrenaline rush from earlier. She would be put up in a small hotel until she could sort out her travelling arrangements in the morning. Even then, he expected that she wouldn't get much rest. Not many people could sleep easily after seeing a man thrashing and fighting for his life.

"Well," he said, extending his hand, "I hope to see you around sometime- and not on the cover of a gossip magazine when this story breaks."

That was enough to earn a quiet laugh from Violet, and she took his hand and shook it. "Thanks. You too."

He didn't spend much energy convincing the officer to take him into town, especially not after he let it slip that Harry and Alice were staying at the Swan Hotel together. Within five minutes, he was sitting in the passenger seat of a police car and explaining just how he arrived in Hampshire that afternoon, leaving his cane, Violet and the Silver Beeches behind.

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><p><em>{<em>Just wanted to say a big, huge, enormous THANK YOU to my amazing beta, Ash, who helped me drag this bad boy back into the quality that I wanted and needed it to be. She is absolutely beyond brilliant, and I don't know if I could have done it without her.<em>_

_But YAY, it's finished and up, one month and two breakdowns later! I really hope that you guys liked it. :D It might also interest you to know that the first chunk of this fic was written in and around London, including on the Bakerloo line of the Underground and in a small coffeeshop in Covent Garden on my lunch breaks from my internship._

_Next part is small but is nearly complete- should be up within the next week or so- probably with the detailed timeline (that involves Sherlock's recovery, Violet's ordeal, Harry's movements, John's involvement, et cetera) that goes up to this point. Thanks for reading, guys!}_


	10. Chapter 10

__{I'm glad that the revision makes more sense to you guys! I really wasn't happy with how the previous draft panned out, so I'm glad that people enjoyed it.__

_This is just a bit of a bridge chapter, but it should help to explain what's going on. Again, thanks for your support!_

_Also, I HATE FANFICTION . NET FOR MAKING ME REMOVE THEIR EMAIL ADDRESSES. UGHSDJFLSDJFLSKGVLDFKG. I ACTUALLY RESEARCHED MYCROFT'S. BLAGH.}_

* * *

><p><strong>FROM: <strong>Mycroft Holmes

**SUBJECT:** FW: FW: FW: FW: FW: FW:

**TO: **Hampshire Police Postmaster

_December 3rd, 2011, 2:32 PM_

See attached.

- MH

This e-mail and any attachments are intended for those to whom it is addressed and may be confidential. If you have received them in error please notify the sender immediately and delete the e-mail and attachments from your computer. Unless you are the intended recipient, you are not authorised to and must not read, copy, distribute, use or retain this message or any part of it.

Do not reply to this email. This inbox is not monitored on a regular basis. Replies to this email will not be read or responded to.

* * *

><p><em>November 5th<em>

Mr. Holmes,

I'm an unemployed governess that has finally been offered a high-end job... as long as I cut off eight inches of my hair and follow some strange requests. I've sent you an email.

- VH

* * *

><p><strong>FROM:<strong> Violet Hunter

**SUBJECT:** Odd demands, need your help

**TO:** Sherlock Holmes

_November 5th, 2011, 9:32 PM_

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I don't want to bore you, but I really need your advice about a bizarre job offer that I got today. My friend told me that nothing got by you when you were working on his case (you've referenced it as 'The Missing Jars' on your website), and I hope that you can look into mine.

I've been a governess for three years and, since my old boss moved to Canada, I've been in debt. My jobseeker's allowance has completely expired and, as you'd expect, I'm a bit desperate. Today, I went to Westaway's Agency to meet a potential employer, and the man tried to hire me literally as soon as I walked into the room.

At first, I figured that he was a pervert. Only an idiot would miss how his face lit up and how he practically jumped out of his chair when he saw me. He told me that I was absolutely perfect, and that he couldn't ask for anyone better. I hadn't said a word! His name was Mr. Rucastle. I figured that the whole thing was pretty open and shut, until he went into the conditions of the job at his place in Hampshire- and my salary, which would completely take me out of debt, twice over.

But _this_ was what I found strange (save for his enthusiasm), and this is what I hoped that you could shed some light on: he wants me to wear his daughter's dress sometimes, to sit in specific places when they tell me to, to follow any odd whims that his wife might have, and to crop my hair just beneath my ears. Think of it as vanity if you want, but I have long, naturally chestnut hair, and there was definitely something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. He tried to convince me, but I said no.

But then I went back home and gave it some thought. After I turned him down, Westaway's Agency put me on the lowest tier of their priority list and I'm completely broke. On top of that, I got an email from Mr. Rucastle. He offered an even higher salary for my troubles, some in advance, and I've half a mind to cut off my hair and take his offer.

I've considered two different possibilities on my own, and I hope that you can add to them.

One: his wife is mad and she has very specific delusions that he can't cater to.

Two: he's a pervert.

I'd really appreciate your feedback ASAP- I desperately need the money and I probably won't find an offer like this again.

Regards,

Violet Hunter

* * *

><p><strong>FROM<strong>: Violet Hunter

**SUBJECT**: Odd demands, need your help - UPDATE

**TO**: Sherlock Holmes

_November 6th, 2011, 11:09 AM_

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I've decided to take the job, assuming that his wife is mad and that Mr. Rucastle isn't actually a pervert. I'll keep in touch if I find anything else that you might find interesting.

Regards,

Violet Hunter

* * *

><p><strong>FROM<strong>: VIOLET HUNTER

**SUBJECT**: Rucastles, Hampshire, weird stuff going on

**TO**: SHERLOCK HOLMES

_November 24th, 2011, 8:32 PM_

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I'm sorry to bother you again, but things are bizarre in Hampshire. Mrs. Rucastle isn't mad- and Mr. Rucastle isn't making any advances on me, thank god. Both of them are reserved, and they live in an enormous, crumbling manor in the middle of nowhere. They have two servants: Mr. Toller, who is constantly wasted, and Mrs. Toller, who is just as silent and pale as Mrs. Rucastle is. Their son Edward, of course, is absolutely disgusting and somewhat spoilt, as many young boys are. And they have this hideous mastiff that they don't feed enough, to 'keep him keen'! They keep him in this tiny shed around the side of the house and let him out at night, probably to hunt rabbits and keep trespassers away. I felt bad for him at first and tried to bring him some food, but he nearly took the door down. Apparently Mr. Toller is the only one that can keep him from acting completely feral. I might call the RSPCA.

They keep asking me to wear their daughter's dress (there are no photos of her in the house- isn't that weird?) and they make me sit by the window in the front room, facing away from the street while I listen to Mr. Rucastle tell jokes. Some of them can be very entertaining, and I've been doing my best to humour them with their 'quirks', but I couldn't help but notice that I couldn't see the street from my spot. So, earlier this evening, I took Edward's digital camera from his room, trained it on the street from another window and left it running. When I got back to it, it had recorded a video of a woman approaching the gate and waiting there, leaning on the railings, smoking cigarettes and staring at the window that I was sitting in. Then she left. She didn't try to ring the bell or call the house or approach beyond the gate.

I've honestly no idea what to make of any of this, and I would appreciate your input. My emails will be really erratic from now on, as I cannot easily access a computer unless I'm at an internet cafe.

Regards,

Violet Hunter

**FROM**: Violet Hunter

**SUBJECT**: Please reply as soon as you can!

**TO**: Sherlock Holmes

_November 30th, 2011, 1:41 PM_

Dear Mr. Holmes,

I know that this might seem boring to you, but I do really need your help. Since I first saw the woman at the gate, I haven't had a chance to speak to her or to leave any messages for her. I don't know exactly what she's waiting for, and it's incredibly unnerving.

I was wandering through the house yesterday, looking for the small suite of rooms that can only be seen from the right side of the manor- and I finally figured out where the door to that wing had to be. It's in a small, out of the way part of the house and, even though it was locked, I found Mr. Toller's keys on the floor by his room. I couldn't help but sneak in- it felt like I had to, if that even makes sense. It turns out that the whole wing is practically abandoned, and the hallway leads to three doors.

The first and the third doors open into completely empty rooms. The second door is barricaded with an iron bar and some rope- and there was a light on inside. I gathered up the courage to look through the keyhole and somebody was in there!

I screamed and I heard some movement from the second room before I left the hallway as fast as I could- and I ran into Mr. Rucastle on the stairs. He was furious and he said that he'd put the dog on me if I went back in there again- and I swear that he meant it. I wanted to quit right then and there, but I had no idea if they would let me after seeing what I did.

Today, they seemed completely on edge and they sent me into town for the day on my own, with a stern warning to keep out of trouble. I have no idea why they would give me a day off after last night, but I genuinely believe that they have to have somebody kept in there against their will- and it's probably Alice. I don't know if the woman at the gate is connected, but it would make sense.

I really need your help, Mr. Holmes. My mobile doesn't get any signal at the Silver Beeches and I don't know what would happen to me if I called the police and Mr. Rucastle found out. He could move Alice somewhere else, or worse.

Violet Hunter

* * *

><p><strong>FROM<strong>: Violet Hunter

**SUBJECT**: Need Your Help

**TO**: Sherlock Holmes

_December 3rd, 2011, 8:26 AM_

Found some signal on phne close to house. Plse come or send someone. Mr & Mrs out tonite til 6, dont want them to come while hes around. Mrs tollers still a problem, mr toller drunk, need advice ASAP. need help to break door.

VH

- This message has been sent from a mobile device.

* * *

><p><strong>FROM<strong>: Sherlock Holmes

**SUBJECT**: RE: Need Your Help

**TO**: Violet Hunter

_December 3rd, 2011, 1:56 PM_

expexct best man betweeen 3 and 5. may need to bring johgn up to speed upon arriuval. lock uop drunks wife `1st.

SH

* * *

><p><em>{I've probably only got two or three more parts until this entire thing is finished, from what I can figure out. Huh. Mycroft was right- he <strong>does<strong> need to reconfigure that laptop.  
>Thanks for your patience and your lovely reviews, guys. :D }<em>


	11. Chapter 11

_{I just want to thank you guys for your support and your patience through the last several months, above everything else. This update has taken so long because of a lot of unfortunate personal circumstances, including but not limited to: finishing my undergraduate degree (I wrote 40,673 words for my degree alone between March and May), being accepted at my dream university for my MA and a lot of horrible/unexpected/emotionally exhausting immigration issues... _**_It's been a ridiculous year, to say the absolute least, and I'm so sorry that I had to put VH on the backburner for so long._**

_**I really appreciate everybody's patience, and I will do my best to keep up with constant updates until this beast is done with! **I am finally settling down at my university and I should have more time to write and focus. The rest of the fic has been thoroughly planned out - it's just a question of writing and finishing at this point.  
><em>

_I have also decided to slice this chapter in half. I took a small poll on tumblr about it and those who responded seemed in favour of an update now, so here it is. This means that there will be 3 more chapters after this to wrap up the fic, and I am 900+ words into Chapter 12 already.}_

* * *

><p>John fell asleep on the train the next morning, and it took a few nudges from one of the cleaners to draw him back, blinking and dazed, into the swell of London's morning commute.<p>

It was one of those bright, otherworldly December days, where the wind bit hard into the apples of his cheeks and no matter how often John wet his lips, they still felt bone-dry. The cold didn't bother him, and when he emerged from the clustered heat of the Underground into the sharp, crisp weather, he carried his coat on one arm as he headed back to the bedsit. The drag and pulse of the Tube had served as a welcome comfort, and his room felt as though it was only around the bend.

Every breath he took felt new.

Harry had paid for his tickets, his room at the Swan, and she had pressed a little extra into the flat of his palm just before he left for the station. She told him to use it on food, and to only pay her back when he could. He could call her, if he needed to. He told her to quit smoking, and she gave him a wry, thin, Watson smile in reply.

Every step he took was automatic. He shelled off his coat and shoes as soon as the door clicked shut behind him, and took his second shower of the morning to rid himself of the entire situation.

They had all given their statements, and it was over. He had met Alice for the first time, and she had seemed too tired for finger-pointing. He'd appreciated that. He had caught Violet just as she left the station, and, even though she wasn't nearly as worn down as Alice had been, the resemblance was striking. They mirrored one another in appearance, mannerisms and sheer exhaustion.

"I knew he wouldn't have sent just anybody," she'd told him, one hand fondly clasping over his good shoulder. "Give him my thanks, when you see him next."

He had promised that he would.

The hot water peeled away the grime of yesterday's clothes, of repetitive questions, of cold sweat and phantom grass stains that still seemed to linger on the heels of his palms. He washed his hair, dragged his fingers down the glass, scratched pink lines along his forearms with his blunt fingernails, and let himself think.

Mr. Holmes had been completely right - John already knew what he was going to do. He had made up his mind when Violet had turned to correct him in the hallway. He was sure of it before Mr. Rucastle burst in, before the dog lunged forward and onto his cane, before he pressed the phone to his ear, and he was still sure of it now.

* * *

><p>"Having fun with your new toy?" he asked as he perched on the edge of his chair, hands steepled before him. He didn't get an answer, but then again, he hadn't expected one. Sherlock's attention was on the laptop again, and John watched his eyes dart across the screen. Finally, he spoke up.<p>

"Could have done with a warning."

That was an understatement, and he knew that he ought to be angrier, that he ought to lash out and let Sherlock know that he was more than a piece in whatever game he was playing, that he should not be placed into dangerous situations without his complete knowledge and prior consent, but…

He had been placed in that situation, and he had conquered it. He had gone into Silver Beeches blind, and he found his way back to London in one piece, standing taller and stronger than he had done for months. Harry and Alice were back together, Violet was safe, the incident had been filed away.

He was still capable, and that simple, solid comfort was worth more to him than anything in the world. Part of him wondered if Sherlock had always known, or if he had been hedging his bets from the safety of his bed.

He didn't ask. He didn't really want to know. Sherlock had glanced up at him again, and John was almost convinced that he saw his nose wrinkle. Their eyes met, and then he glanced away to his laptop.

Irritation frayed in the pit of his stomach, and he pushed it back as well as he could. With a long, slow sigh, John leaned forward. "Alright," he said, "I'll bite. What's so interesting, then?"

From where he was sitting, he could scarcely see the screen for the glint of the sun across the laptop. Absentmindedly, he leaned back to tug the curtains shut. Sherlock's eyes flickered across the screen and John watched the cursor slide down the page, past reams of notes - **'65% ethanol gett molly to checjk compoasites. sister alibi faaked hdressr-'**…

Slowly, painstakingly, **'much better'** was spelled out across the screen, and John stared at it for a full ten seconds before he realised that it was directed at him.

"What is?"

Sherlock glanced back at the curtains over his shoulder, and then back at John.

"Oh, right." He paused, wondering if that was meant to be a 'thank you' in some form or another. "…You're welcome?"

Silence stretched and spread between them, and Sherlock turned his attention back to his laptop and his scattered notes. For a moment, he wondered if they were actually going to have something that resembled a real conversation, but when he checked the screen again, Sherlock was back to rapidly typing up his notes. **'work hstry needed befoire takng further actiobn on csse send asap-'**

"On another case already?" he asked dryly, and Sherlock didn't answer. Despite his typing speed, Sherlock's accuracy seemed to range from decent to abysmal, possibly depending on how enthusiastic he felt about the topic at hand. John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock's eyes could ever hope to keep up with the thoughts that had to be racing through his mind. After a few moments and with a measured flick of his eyes, he scrolled down the page to the bottom of his document.

'**only thw simple ones. Yard seemes tohire idiots.'**

John's lips quirked up slightly. "Except you, right?"

'**havent hired me per se'**

He paused for a moment, and he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he processed that simple phrase. When he spoke next, his voice was almost painfully dry. "Then how did - why did the police show up last night? You sorted that out, didn't you?"

'**my brothr tends to interfere whethr i want hium to or not'**

John looked up sharply - incredulously - but Sherlock continued to type.

'**i heard tht you performd well enoughg under duress.'**

There was a brief pause as Sherlock gave him a once-over and looked back to his laptop again.

**'you lft your cane in hampshre' **

"I tried to choke a dog with it, actually."

Those eyes rested on him again, and John saw the corner of his lips twitch.

'**youre welcome. now twll me everythng'**

And he did. From the moment that he had stepped out of the taxi on Dockenfield Street to the empty room at the top of the stairs, from fighting off the dog to the surreal drive back to the Swan Hotel where he met up with Alice and Harry - not a detail was left out, save for his conversation with Mr. Holmes. Sherlock didn't need to know about that.


End file.
